America or Israel - Where do I belong anyway?

At some point I came to realize that there are really 2 types of Holy Lands – an inner and outer. One’s an Israel of Latitude…and one of Attitude. A Holy Land of Attitude is where Israel is a universal metaphor, a state of mind, an inner-terrain. This is a universal Holy Land...to which every person must make their own pilgrimage. And then there’s the Holy Land of Latitude...that place on a map. A parliamentary democracy on the south-east shore of the Mediterranean Sea. Some seven and a half million people big. 290 miles long and the singular homeland of the Jewish people. Israel is at once an objective sovereign state, as well as a subjective state of mind. So why was it that it was so hard for me to maintain my inner Israel attitude when I was in the actual latitudes? It was clear to me that being wrecked by grief while living in the State of Israel was a betrayal of my inner state of Israel. Maybe I just needed to focus on cultivating my inner Israel of attitude while in my comfortable and familiar American cocoon? I remember sitting over a cup of coffee at a Starbucks in Memphis Tn, lamenting my confusion to one of my friends. In response she told me a story: Before the establishment of the Jewish State, the UN offered David Ben Gurion a Partition Plan. This plan would have left the Jewish people with a paltry slice of territory - but it would nevertheless have been the realization of a Jewish homeland! Ben Gurion could not decide - and so called forth his trusted colleague Yitzhak Tabenkin to help him make the decision. Tabenkin asked for a day in which to consider his response. He said, “You must give me a day to consider my response. I must consult with two individuals.” The next day, Tabenkin returns and urges Ben Gurion to refuse the offer. Ben Gurian listens, ponders, nods and replies, "I agree with your decision - but tell me, from whom did you seek advice?" "From two people," answered Tabenkin. "From my grandfather and from my grandson. From my grand-father who died ten years ago, and from my grandson who is not yet born." Something about the rush of the caffeine mixed with this great story was magical for me. Because suddenly, right there in the buzz of that crowded Starbucks, I was overtaken by a vision. I closed my eyes and saw myself surrounded by my ancestors and my descendants. It was as if I was getting a glimpse of some sort of mystic family pow-wow. I asked my friend to give me a few minutes as I sat there, eyes closed, overcome by vision. There I was, sitting in a darkened room holding a candle. Surrounded by a host of shadowy figures who had gathered to discuss my destiny. The first one to step forward was my old yiddishe Gramma. Mutsi Uditsky. With a name straight out of a Polish joke, she ambled over to me, pinched my cheeks real hard and said, “Zeeskeit, just be where you’ll be happy…in here.” As she pointed to my heart. My inner-Israel. And then, out of the shadows stepped forward my luminescent future granddaughter, age 12, with a shining long braid, she approached me gently and in flawless Hebrew whispered, “Anachnu babayit”… We’re home. We’re home. And then suddenly there came a whole countless chorus of Eastern European Edelsons, all my mother’s kin from Tukum Latvia, the ones who suddenly stopped sending letters in 1943. They were all there, ghostly and silent and somehow serene. And finally my great-grand-son dressed as a soldier, who put his strong hand on my shoulder, his head to my cheek, and murmured, “You’re safe.” I’m safe. By this point the sounds of Starbucks had thoroughly faded away and a memory came rushing up to the surface. It was me at age 8, JCC summer camp. There I was standing sturdy in shorts and t-shirt at the flag pole, for the morning raising of the flags. I watched in wonder as these two colorful cloths were hoisted to sky – an American and an Israeli flag, like the two parts of me. And I, I was this little precious precocious pitskila, singing Hatikva with all my heart…and my heart was like a tiger, fierce and clear and strong. This young unabashed prophetess little me squeezing her eyes shut and singing strong beneath the flags. This child, remarkably, was already sold on coming home to the land of Israel. She was already there in the thick Bible Belt heat of summer sun, singing Hatikva at the top of her lungs. She was already there, even before the whole story unfolded, of swiped lipsticks and Auschwitz, well before that wondrous first glimpse of the western wall. She was already there, with Yerushalayim welling up overwhelming in her heart. And she, she didn’t yet know from fear. Didn’t know how the path would unfold beneath her. She just knew her destination & her destiny.

And sitting there in Starbucks, wrapped up in this vision, all the waves of meaning, of Jewish history, washed over me. Like I was standing on the other side of the Sea of Reeds. Watching as all of those mighty chariots that had so crippled me with foreboding…simply got washed away, like so many fallen illusions. Swept away in this precious long-awaited drench of meeting my self, my ancestors, and my descendants.

- Mirror Moment: Imagine, as you are sitting here, that your ancestors and your descendants are with you right now. Imagine they’ve been accompanying you this entire time. And they all have gathered to discuss what Israel means to you. Who do you see? What do they say to you?

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